


The Lone Wolf Dies

by JonsaInTheNorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, PTSD, post-Battle of the Bastards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7575190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonsaInTheNorth/pseuds/JonsaInTheNorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon is all hot rage and anger, but Sansa mourns quietly, discreetly, alone. He would almost think she doesn’t miss Rickon, except for the sadness in her eyes when he brings her the cloak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lone Wolf Dies

The cotton cloak drapes over his hands, soft and small and scented like Sansa. Jon has handled the unpacking of their camp into Winterfell; it is strange to order the servants about as if he is a lord and not baseborn. None of their allies had come forth to claim the chest, and so Jon had set to discover its owner. This task helps to distract from the him from the ever-present gnawing rage deep within his gut, the panicked heat that blinds him in the training yard. 

He runs his hands over the soft leather straps, identical to the ones draped across his own shoulders. The fur across the collar is black, not a wolf’s fur but something softer. He does not know where Sansa found it, but her impeccable embroidery and the smell of her gives away its owner immediately.

A sigh escapes Jon’s lips as he roots through the rest of the trunk. His distraction, his mystery, only adds to the fury he holds, of not being there in time. His mind is filled with flashes of Rickon’s face, his outstretched arm, before the soft cloth cements him to reality.

A collection of clothes, approximately the size of an boy of one-and-ten, waits for him. Everywhere, there are embroidered wolves, snowbanks and squirrels, weirwood trees and still ponds, crowns and blue winter roses. He recognizes Sansa’s handiwork as he would recognize his lord father’s touch.

“Bring this to storage.” Jon commands one of the servants who wanders the halls, helping with the rebuilding and fixing of the castle. The cloth is good, and as much as Jon would like to bury the wardrobe with Rickon, winter is coming.

He saves the cloak though, so small in his hands. He holds the fur against his face, smelling Sansa and thinking of their young brother, dead before his time. 

After supper that night, where his sister sits in stone cold silence like she always does in public, Jon joins Sansa in her solar. She pours over account books, learning the state of Winterfell's supplies. She glances up in surprise when Jon's hand alights upon her shoulder. Her eyes land on the cloak he hold and immediately look away.

"You found it." She says, voice shaking.

Jon crouches besides her and reaches for her stilled hand. "I thought you'd given up."

"Never." Sansa looks back at him, and her eyes are full of tears. "I may have been rational, but I still hoped…"

She breaks then, her body crumpling in the chair. Her body wracks with her sobs, even harder as Jon stands to pull her against his chest. In her words he sees Rickon watching Bran in the training yard, throwing pease at Arya across the high table. He sees home as it used to be, not the empty shell it is now.

Her crying is a messy, snotty thing, and he knows Sansa stains his tunic as she cries against him. He gently pets her hair, murmuring soothing words, anything to stop the pain in her soul, but still she crumbles. 

"I thought we'd be together- he's been missing for so long, likely outgrown the clothes of the wilds- mother would've wanted- but Ramsay wouldn't-" 

Her rambled mumblings pain his heart in ways he didn't think himself susceptible to anymore. He holds onto her as hard as she clutches at his front, rooting himself in this place and these moments. Sansa still dreams, just like he does, that much is clear, but hers are no longer visions of princes and tourneys but simply a family reunited, something that they will never see again.

It is long moments before the sobbing stops, before he thinks it safe to finally let out his own parched cry. Jon’s release is soft and low, but Sansa hears it anyway. 

She lays her head against his chest, body stilling as she presses herself against him. Quiet follows with Sansa nestled against him, holding him in comfort too. His own tears stain his vision, but Jon still holds her tight.

Her voice is tight as she tells him, "We never should have left Winterfell."

In the moment that follows she returns to her courtly self, dignified and done with useless emotions. Her next statement is for both of them, although the truth is far different.

"I'm never leaving again."

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out and fangirl about Jonsa and other ASOIAF/GOT goodness with me on [tumblr](http://jonsa-in-the-north.tumblr.com).


End file.
